


Pupaphobia

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:49:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of Dave Strider, as seen through the ever-watchful eyes of Lil' Cal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pupaphobia

**Author's Note:**

> so i've always had this headcanon that Cal's got a camera embedded behind those soulless eyes of his. this is what happens when i combine that with my love of passive-aggressively tormenting Dave.

The camera's lenses blurs for a moment as it attempts to auto-zoom properly. The quality is grainy, but enough to see by in the half-darkness of the hours just before dawn. A wide pan of the room reveals a plywood board supported by cinderblocks, strewn with random stuff, a slightly nicer desk with a ton of sweet new technology perched on top and around it, a snarl of wires across the floor leading to an exponentially nicer table with a fine set of turntables gleaming in the near-light atop them, and dumped haphazardly in the corner, a twin mattress on crooked bedsprings topped with a heap of blankets shifting slightly with the breath of someone sleeping underneath them.

A flash, a few more seconds to re-adjust focus, and the camera provides a close up of one Dave Strider, curled loosely on his side, back to the wall, fast asleep. As usual, he still has his trademark shades hanging haphazardly from his nose, and one arm is thrust under the pillow, likely clutching the hilt of a probably broken shitty katana. Even, no, especially in slumber, one can never let their guard down. His brow furrows, he shivers, and worms his way deep under his card suite patterned blankets. The camera hovers over the gently rising and falling mass for a moment, then another flash, providing this time a view from the window.

It's always left open, probably stuck that way now because there was never a need to close it, and the vista it presents is pretty drab: a typical dingy cityscape, a grey horizon, a steep drop down to the street below.

Pan slowly over walls to shelves. Many drying self-portraits hanging, a few still dripping photo chemicals. Crappy posters, mostly for ironic purposes, whatever that means. Scattered bones and jars of pickle juice and witch hazel and other odd liquids in which reside carefully labeled dead things, mostly mice and frogs, with a few moths tacked to the wall. Crowning glory of the collection: dog skull with fur still attached that the finder picked up from a ditch. Computer glow illuminates room: default Windows screensaver, because coolkids don't have time for fancy shit like that.

Room looks standard, green light blinks, camera ceases motion, resting on top of shelf watching bed. It enters standby mode, the view dims a little, and for a few more hours, watches Dave Strider sleep. He tosses and turns a lot, sometimes sitting bolt upright and clutching his throat, strangling what might be screams, before he rolls over and looks at peace.

Eventually, he wakes up, pulls on yesterday's jeans and a Back to the Future t-shirt, and waves to the camera. Green light blinks once more, screen brightens, and after he leaves, another flash, momentary loss of focus, and the kitchen, as seen from a spot above the sink. Dave Strider is staring into the fridge, or at least that's what it looks like he's doing. His shades are now firmly fixed to his face, and for all the emotion he shows as he pulls out a carton of eggs and some bacon, he may as well be a broom. He rummages around for a pan, his gaze eventually falling to the mass of filthy dishes in the sink. Camera catches a glitch that might have been the coolkid showing a moment of surprise, but quickly returns to uncooked breakfast supplies being tossed carelessly back into the fridge in favor for Lucky Charms. As he tries to shut the door, a few swords slide out, jamming it, and predictably, break under the weight of the fridge swinging shut. Dave just kicks them under the table and casts the dishes one last melodramatic stare, as if that'll clean them so he can make himself something more appetizing than freeze-dried marshmallows out of a Tupperware. "Sup Lil' Cal." He says conversationally around a mouthful of the stuff, nodding in the camera's direction. His voice is static-ey over the shitty sound card. Of course, no response, just a steady zoom in on his spoon.

Several more hours produce footage of a typical day in the Strider household. Dave relocates to his room, camera enters standby on the bed behind him while he works at his computer. A few breaks are taken, leaving a blank view of a Pesterchum window, an e-book of Huck Finn for part of Dave's online classes, and a half-finished blog post about Samuel Clemens' great literary tact. Not much changes until Dave decides to head for a part of the house he knows is off limits.

His hand only has a second or so to rest of the doorknob to his brother's room before it's swatted away, the camera so close it can point out the smaller of his freckles, and just a hint of red iris behind his shades. Tinny laughter rings, causing the sound to screech and crackle out for a moment. Dave backs away with his hands raised defensively, obviously rolling his eyes to cover blatant shock. "Alright little man, I was just gonna grab the new Game Bro from his desk. Chill out." The laughter stops, and chilling out once more becomes a thing Dave does, smoothing his metaphorically ruffled feathers as he flops back down at his desk with some apple juice and a box of Cheez-Its. By and by, darkness falls and the camera blinks out permanently, leaving with the image of Dave Strider frantically Googling psychological terms in order to keep up with one of his internet friends. He carelessly leaves a search for "pupaphobia" up in Hephaestus before heading to bed.


End file.
